Walk Like A Man
by CelticFaerie2
Summary: House, MD x Lost crossover. House wakes up after a plane crash. His leg is miraculously heaed. But what about Wilson? Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

The first awareness was of sand. In his hair, in his eyes, in his mouth, in places sand should never be allowed to go. He scratched, hands rubbing at his face, long before he was awake.

There was water, waves crashing on a shore. He imagined a warm, tropical beach. A net for volley ball, kids building sandcastles. Kids. That would explain the screaming.

Except not.

He cracked one eye open. The world was dull, colorless. Looked like a war zone. Burning debris, burnt chunks of metal. People…he could see people in the distance. Running around, sitting, standing. Screaming.

He didn't feel like screaming. He didn't really feel much at all. Kind of like sitting back, watching a horror movie. He closed his eyes, and for a moment there was nothing. Then…it call came rushing back. Images assaulting his mind, tingling of emotions careening through him.

Sydney to Los Angeles. He'd had a bad feeling about the flight. Or maybe just wanted to stay in Oz another day or two. He'd gotten on the plane anyway. Wilson had to be back in Jersey for an Oncology conference.

Wilson!

Blue eyes snapped open, searching. Wilson had been sleeping when the turbulence hit. He'd woken up with a start, brown eyes wide and confused. He'd reached for House's hand without words, and that was the last House remembered, until now. Until waking up in the sand.

He remembered pain searing his leg. He'd felt the resistance in his thigh as the plane started to go down. He'd locked eyes with Wilson, and then, nothing. He must have blacked out, which let his body relax, and probably saved his life.

But what about Wilson?

"Wilson!" he screamed. The word tore at his throat, burned his ears. He struggled against gravity to sit up. His body felt heavy, uncooperative. "Wilson!" he chirped again.

The man who came toward him was not Dr James Wilson. House recognized him from the plane, he'd been a few rows a head of him. House had seen attendants carry him on board, and stash his wheelchair in the back.

"Can you walk?" the man asked. He was bald, with curious eyes.

House looked down at his leg. Could he walk? He honestly didn't know. The sand would be difficult to navigate. Without his cane, it was probably impossible. "I don't know," he admitted, because there was really no point in trying to pretend he wasn't compromised in this situation.

The man nodded, eyes shifting almost imperceptibly to scan the area, looking for something. House had seen him, he'd likely noticed House, and his cane. "I'm John Locke," he said, dipping down so House could get an arm around his shoulder.

"Greg House," House answered, followed by a sharp intake of breath as Locke pulled him to his feet. "I saw you, in the airport."

Locke nodded. "I woke up on the ground, and I could feel my legs. I don't know how or why."

He was standing, and he shifted his weight to his right side, just to see. His leg spasmed, but it didn't balk. Didn't threaten to collapse.

Locke stepped back. House stepped forward.

His foot sank in the colorless sand, but he didn't fall. Didn't pitch forward. Didn't feel like he needed to catch himself.

He glanced back at Locke. Locke smiled back at him.

"Your friend, Wilson? He's over there," Locke pointed to a group of survivors gathered near the shore. "Pulled him from the wreckage. Leg was pinned, but he's alive. Awake, and asking for you."

House was running, then. Running toward Wilson.


	2. Chapter 2

House was off and running, running toward Wilson as fast as his legs would move. It was an awesome sensation, running again, the ground under his feet. But he didn't have time to lose himself in it. He was driven, driven to Wilson's side.

There was a crowd around him, the man on a makeshift cot on the ground. A dark haired man with blood stained down the side of his shirt knelt next to Wilson, helping Wilson drink from a plastic water bottle.

House fell to his knees on the other side, causing Wilson's eyes to shift. Wild and unfocused for a moment, then wide with shock as he groped for House's hand. "Your…leg," he sputtered, water dripping down his chin. House wiped it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

House caught Wilson's hand in his, linked fingers. "It's fine. I'll tell you all about it later." John Locke put a hand on the other man's shoulder, and he backed away, moving off to talk with Locke privately. House glanced at them, but shifted his attention immediately back to Wilson. "How are you holding up?"

"I've been better," Wilson managed, and lifted his head, straining to get a look at his leg. House didn't know any details, and hadn't had a chance to look at the wound himself. He didn't want Wilson to see it, until he knew just how bad it really was.

He eased Wilson back down to his pillow made of folded clothes wrapped in someone's coat. A hand on Wilson's cheek helped keep the patient calm. "Just relax. I'm here. I'm gonna take good care of you, okay."

Wilson's eyes closed. He shifted, trying to get closer to House. House scooted closer to him and squeezed his hand. i I'm right here, Wilson. I'm not going anywhere. /i 

"I'm so tired, House. Can I sleep? Can I sleep now?"

The hand on his cheek moved into his hair, stroking it away from his face. He started humming, softly, soothing, easing Wilson into sleep. Within minutes, Wilson's breathing evened out, and another few minutes after that, House scanned the crowd, looking for John Locke or the man who had been sitting with Wilson.

Locke caught his eyes, smiled, guided the other man to look at House. "Greg House, Dr Jack Shepard," Locke said, pointing to each in turn.

House offered his hand, Jack moved in to clasp it. "You're a doctor?" House questioned.

Jack nodded and knelt beside House. Beside Wilson.

"So am I. So is he." House gestured at Wilson.

Jack nodded again. "He told me."

"What can you tell me about his leg?" House shifted, attempted to extract his hand from Wilson's but Wilson's fingers tightened. He squeezed back, and decided not to pull his hand away.

Jack tugged Wilson's pant leg up. "I cleaned the wound best I could, wrapped a clean shirt around it to stop the bleeding and keep sand out of it."

"How bad is it?" House asked, eyes shifting to look at the doctor. Wilson murmured, House resumed stoking his hair to keep him settled.

"He was trapped between two seats on the plane. I didn't want to pull it out, but I was afraid he'd die in there," Jack pointed to a section of the plane. Open at both ends, it was a mess of tangled wires and over turned seats. And dead bodies.

"How bad is it?" House asked again, blue eyes boring into Jack.

"It's bad. He's bled through two shirts already. He needs stitches, antibiotics, blood transfusion. Surgery."

House's gaze flickered to Wilson. He looked so young, so innocent, in sleep. Until his brow furrowed and his mouth twisted in pain. It passed quickly, and he relaxed again.

"Think you can find me a couple needles, something to transfuse blood, and a B Positive donor?"

"Got yourself a donor right here," John Locke offered. House looked up at him with a nod.

"I'll see what I can do," Jack stood and put a hand on House's shoulder. House met his eyes for a moment, then looked away.

Jack and Locke both headed off, and House sat closer to Wilson, adjusted Wilson's head to lay in his lap.


End file.
